


Bending Sound, Dredging the Ocean

by shadeofwrong



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 13:06:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4222809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadeofwrong/pseuds/shadeofwrong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A glimpse into Harry Hart's past work as Galahad, working to break up a European human trafficking scheme, and how he deals with anger. Pre-canon, but not more than three years or so. It's something I've wanted to explore in writing for a bit, especially along with sending up spy tropes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bending Sound, Dredging the Ocean

“Monsieur, I appreciate all the trouble you must have gone through to infiltrate my villa, but you must understand, my work in Laos is just business.”

Ice cubes, shaved into meticulous shape, dropped from the tongs in Lormand's hand into Harry's glass. They playfully tinkled to the bottom before rising up to greet him. Harry kept his eyes on the Frenchman, not the glass, nor the decanter of whiskey on his desk, nor the trail of dead or incapacitated security that led him up to Lormand's private quarters.

“It's my understanding that human and drug trafficking are illegal businesses, by most people's definitions.” Harry didn't dare to take a even a whiff of the drink until Lormand filled his own glass and sipped from it. Manners had nothing to do with it for once. Lord knew how many times his host drugged people out of the same set of glassware.

“And yet, before you, no one has bothered to hold this against me. Why should they? My money has been a boon to the economy between Europe and Asia. If you put me away, how many people are hurt by this, hm?”

Lormand's saccharine excuses didn't elicit much reaction from Harry. He heard it all before, the standard lies wealthy arseholes told themselves to be able to sleep at night in beds bought with money made from outright Dickensian suffering. Lormand, however, actually seemed to believe it all. Harry let him go on, appearing at ease in front of the desk. He didn't sit, but one hand stayed in his pocket while the other balanced against the rim of his glass. He tapped the bottom against the wooden desktop.

“Really, monsieur. If I went up to the common man on one of your London streets, he wouldn't even be able to tell me if Laos is a real country, let alone show me where it is on a map. So what makes you think you should interfere?”

_Tap._

“People will get heroin if they want it badly enough. It doesn't matter who's shipping it. At least I can guarantee a fine product.”

_Tap, tap._  
“And the mules, they practically beg for the work. You have to tell them some of the money goes home to the families, but they'd probably take it even if they knew it didn't--”  
_Crack._

Both men looked down at Harry's glass. The pressure of his grip tightened enough to send a break right down the crystal.

“Pardon,” Harry excused himself calmly. “Sometimes I forget my own strength, you know.” He let go of it delicately, and the alcohol-- brandy, by the scent of it-- started to leak through the crack and pool on the oak finish. Harry returned his attention to Lormand instead, and took a few steps forward, around the desk.

“Honestly, despite your warm hospitality, I'm not here to listen to the existential justification of what you do.”

Lormand stood from his Louis XIV chair and stepped back towards his liquor cabinet, masking an attempt to put more space between himself and Harry.

“So you can acknowledge that there is justification.”

“I can acknowledge a crock of shit when I'm looking at it, yes.” Harry's lips curled into a tight smile. "Excuse my French, Mr. Lormand.”

“That expression. It came as no surprise to me that you English invented it. A shame we have no counterpart.”

Lormand sighed and wrapped his hand around the stopper of a decanter atop the cabinet. Harry's fingers tensed in his pockets. The nervous movements of Lormand's hands kept him on guard.

"You'll simply have to accept it when I tell you to go fuck yourself," the Frenchman hissed. He drew out the stopper and revealed the sharp blade concealed within the bottle. Lormand lunged towards Harry, poised to stab him in the heart. Harry's stance quickly changed from a relaxed gentleman's to a combatant's. He hunched his shoulders and planted his feet hard on the ground before he kicked Lormand's gaudy, expensive chair right into his path. He stumbled over it, giving Harry the time to sweep in and deliver a swift haymaker to his solar plexus.

Lormand crumpled in half under the blow. Doubled over and winded, he inhaled loud, ugly gasps to get air back into his lungs. He fell to one knee and gripped the fine carpet as if he dropped his oxygen there. Harry sighed and took a step back to let him breathe; unfortunately he needed Lormand able to speak.

"As I said. I'm here for facts. When I walk out of this house, your business will be over. That's fact. Another is that if you tell me where your men are keeping the girls you kidnapped from countryside hostels, maybe you won't be completely fucked."

"It's--" Lormand stopped and drew another wheezing gulp of air. "It's charmingly naive that you think I'll have to answer to the courts." He stumbled back to his feet. He grabbed the leg of the chair Harry upturned, and with a surprising display of strength, broke it free and dove at Harry again. 

Harry reached for the gun on his belt hidden in the back of his jacket, but Lormand smacked it out of his hand and sent it spinning across the floor, towards the balcony overlooking the French Riviera.

"As if you're the first to try--"

Lormand swung at Harry's head next. Harry leaned back, keenly aware he was being pushed towards the wall. Despite his dodge, the splintered end of the chair leg grazed the length of his cheek. The hot sting of broken skin lasted for half a second until cooled by the blood that streamed from the cut. For someone so sure he wouldn't get taken in, Lormand's fighting carried all the airs of desperation. Harry gritted his teeth and dug his heels into the carpet. When Lormand came at him again and brought the wood down overhead, Harry caught it with both hands. He locked his fingers around the end trembling near his face and Lormand's wrist, then tried to push it away and cripple his opponent's hand in the process. He couldn't go for the knife in his pocket until he carved out that opening, but Lormand, rather than still aiming for Harry's face, started to shift his weight towards the floor in an attempt to bring Harry down. Lormand must have put something in that brandy besides a weapon, but dutch courage could only take the Frenchman so far.

Harry mirrored Lormand's movements until he had enough space to knee him in the side and loosen his grip on the chair leg. With another kick from the flat of his foot, Harry sent Lormand sprawling across the floor and out onto his balcony. Wires connected in his brain to remind him of the error in that strategy just in time to dive out of the way of the shots Lormand fired from Harry's lost gun. Harry sheltered himself behind a filing cabinet and pulled out the knife he planned to use earlier, while counting the shots from his gun. After the third, he heard Lormand stagger back into the office. He charted every footstep the man took before twisting his body out of hiding. By the time Lormand realized where Harry was and lifted the gun to shoot, the Kingsman's knife already hurtled half of the space between them, and buried itself deep in Lormand's chest. As he careened backward, the fourth shot he'd been ready to take blasted over Harry's head. The sound of Lormand hitting the floor didn't penetrate his eardrums past the ringing. 

Without stopping to catch his breath, Harry knelt over Lormand and watched him struggle for dry breath with a grim stare. The knife embedded just around his aorta, so they didn't have much time. 

“You were right. Not going to court, looks like,” Harry murmured. As his hearing returned, he gripped the handle of his knife. Lormand, even though obvious tears of pain welled in his eyes, gurgled out a laugh.

“You fucking limey brute--” Harry twisted the handle of the knife, and Lormand gasped out a quiet cry. 

“It might take at least two minutes before your lungs fill up with blood. If you don't tell me where the girls are, I'll cut that time down significantly for you.”

“I don't give a shit--” Another, slower twist, and Lormand's back arches under the pain. “It doesn't _matter!_ ” he screamed. “The shipment left the docks hours ago--” Lormand continued to rattle off a chain of French curses on Harry's name, but Harry didn't hear him. Not because of the ringing in his ears, but because he suddenly fell inward upon learning that information. The horrifying image constructed itself that if those girls were already on a cargo ship to Laos, they started to endure more than Harry promised himself that they would. When Harry's eyes met Lormand's again, they burned into him. Harry shifted his grip on the knife handle and plunged it in deeper. He held it there until Lormand's body went completely limp.

The sea breeze floating in from the balcony blended with the scent of blood in the air, leaving a salty, metallic taste in Harry's mouth. He took a deep breath through his nose and pulled his knife free, pausing to clean it on the lapel of Lormand's suit before standing up. Already, as he collected his gun and steadied his breathing, Harry started to calculate flight times in his head. No time to get maudlin now, he thought, tapping the frames of his glasses as he rushed past his trail of bodies out of the villa. 

“Merlin. I need you to get me a flight to Laos. Immediately.”


End file.
